The Midnight Mayor (36 page)

“Christ. Jesus fucking Christ,” muttered Earle. “Don’t move. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

 

He was there in fifteen.

What kind of man wore a suit to bed?

He brought minions. Aldermen: nameless, stone-faced men and women. How we loathed Aldermen.

“Where’s Kemsley?”

I jerked my head at the door. I’d had to let the light go out in my fingers, too tired to hold it. I’d found a bit of wall that didn’t look like it was going to collapse immediately, and made it my friend. The Aldermen had torches. They hurt our eyes.

“In there. There’s a nurse looking after him. You’d better not be too rude. The NHS has a policy on rude visitors.”

Earle gestured at the chipboard door, and one of the black-coated silent Aldermen detached himself and drifted through it, pulling it shut behind him.

“What about Anissina?”

“I told you. I don’t know.”

“What about my—”

“I don’t know. One is dead, at least. We got separated. Mr Pinner was waiting. I guess he must have known we’d go looking again after Nair died there. I guess he didn’t mind, until we got too close to the flat where the kid stayed. Then he did his thing.”

“What about this kid?”

“Not there.”

“So at least one of my men is dead for nothing?”

“No. At least one of your men is dead for confirmation that Mr Pinner is a mean son of a bitch who would probably have a bit of a giggle at a strategic nuclear strike. Also for confirmation that Nair was killed by this . . . thing. And to prove that the kid is connected; to conclude that this whole bloody thing has been tied up in a way that gives me a migraine just to think of; and to find that there was a CCTV camera in the stairwell. I know it’s not like dying to save puppies and children, but I’d go to the funeral and we’d honour their memory with true gratitude.”

“You’re gabbling, Swift,” snapped Earle.

“I’m a little fried.”

“How did you survive?”

“It was all a bit of a blur.”

Earle glanced quickly at Oda, who turned her head away. It meant something, that movement - I just didn’t know what. Add it to the list.

“This CCTV camera” - the guy could prioritise - “It was working?” “When I last checked. You people have a thing for this, right? I mean you’ve done the assault rifles and stuff” - we wanted to laugh, or possibly cry, or some hysterical thing in between, a madness on the edge of my voice - “so you’ve gotta be up there with the whole spy surveillance shit, right?”

“We can probably manage something.”

“Good. You should probably do it soon. I’m guessing Mr Pinner is kinda pissed that anyone survived. He’ll probably come looking. And we’re not in any condition to fight, not against a guy who can’t die.”

“There are scratches on your face.”

“Paper cuts.”

“He . . .”

“Yes.”

“What is he?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Yes. You were Bakker’s apprentice, and whatever he was in life, there is no denying that he was an expert in these matters. Do you have any idea what this Mr Pinner is?”

I thought about it long and hard. “No.”

“No?”

“Not a clue. Not a finch’s fart. He’s going to kill us, isn’t he?”

“From the sounds of it, yes,” murmured Earle thoughtfully.

So we laughed. And realising that what we really wanted to do was cry, we laughed just that bit harder, so no one would see the truth.

 

Safe places.

Strange how these things get redefined. A guy walks behind you in an empty street and safety is the home. A couple of kids burgle your house and safety is with Mum and Dad’s home. A bomb goes off at the end of the street and safety is in the countryside. A guy comes looking for you who bleeds paper and shredded the last bloke with your job title like an unwanted telephone bill, and safety is . . .

Thinking is trouble.

 

The Aldermen found me a place to stay. They didn’t want me in the office, and I didn’t want to be there. I had no home of my own, hadn’t had one since my death certificate had been put on file. So, grumbling all the way, they found me a hotel to spend the night.

I wanted to sleep.

I wanted to feel safe.

And as safe goes, it wasn’t bad. It ticked the mundane choices - twenty-four-hour security staff, police station practically across the road, busy streets outside, CCTV surveillance up the kazoo and Aldermen stationed on the corridors and doors at all times. It also met some mystical choices - the River Thames only a few yards away in one direction, the lights of the West End only a few yards the other way; and, just down the road, Charing Cross station, generally accepted as the heart of the city. There was power in that, even if it wasn’t true. Ideas are power, and the constant burning of the lights gave the place a magic that we could practically float on, an electric-orange lick in the air. Look out of any window, and whether you saw reflected lights on the water or the flashing signs of the Strand, it was beautiful. Even we could sleep, safe in so much busy, beautiful life around us, trusting to strangers and their ways to keep us from danger.

And whaddayaknow?

It even had room service.

As a rule, I dislike hotels. Too much money, too little soul. Plus the bed had ten layers of sheet and blanket that needed a hydraulic pump to pry them away from the mattress, and the radiators were turned up too high. But it was peaceful, and it was safe.

So we curled up beneath the sheets, and we slept.

 

Sorcerers are supposed to have prophetically insightful dreams.

I guess I wasn’t in the zone.

My dreams were drenched in terror. They woke me every half-hour, gasping for breath, face burning and arms goosebumped, without being able to name the dread that hunted me across the synaptic snooze of my mind. When I went back to sleep, turning in the wrecked mess of blanket, it would come back, beating against the edge of my skull the chant:

Another thing to add to the list of things that needed to be thought about, and about which I did not want to think.

We slept.

 

Morning began at three in the afternoon.

Still here.

Still not dead.

Surprise!

Our heart missed a beat as we opened the bathroom door, but no, no flayed victims or vengeful pinstriped . . . things waiting for us.

Surprise!!

I didn’t get up in a hurry, reasoning that if Earle had anything heartbreakingly important to tell me, he would. It occurred to me that, it now being three in the afternoon, Earle might already be dead along with the rest of the Aldermen and for all I knew the remainder of the city, and we were all alone in the ruined remains of London - but the water ran hot from the shower and the slippers were too fluffy for this to be Armageddon quite yet.

Besides, there was a phone call I had to make before the end of everything, the death of the city. I made no conscious decision to do it. But I knew, with the certainty that comes over you in a hot shower after a long day, that it had to be done.

While I slept, someone had cleaned my clothes, even my coat. Polishing my shoes had been out of the question, but the worst of the dirt seemed to have been scraped off with a hard brush, my trousers folded and my “What Would Jesus Do?” T-shirt, for which we were starting to develop a strange and uncomfortable fondness, smelt of fabric softener. They’d even managed to shift the worst of the blood from the cuffs of my coat. I was impressed. Suspicious, but impressed.

There was an Alderman on the door, when I opened it. He had a face that had been polished in olive oil. He glanced at me, I stared at him. He didn’t smile. I guessed he was one of the ones who’d voted to have me shot. I guessed he wasn’t currently a fan of the democratic process. I said, “Have we met?”

“No.”

“I’m Matthew.”

“I know who you are.”

Five words were four too many to prove that this line of enquiry would get nowhere. I gave up on good manners and snapped, “Where’s Earle?”

“Mr Earle is working.”

“At what?”

“At the current situation.”

“Where can I find him?”

“His office is Harlun and Phelps. Overlooking Aldermanbury Square. We’re under orders to keep you safe.”

“Whose orders?”

“The majority’s orders.”

“What’s Harlun and Phelps?”

“Trust fund managers.”

“The Aldermen are trust fund managers?”

“It pays to be paid.”

Couldn’t argue with his reasoning. “Has he found the boy, Mo?”

“I would inform you if he had.”

“Has he found Anissina?”

“No. But then, he hasn’t found her body. Unlike those of four others of our employees.”

I thought of the mercenaries skidding down the cable into the smog of Kilburn. “I’m sorry.”

“They were just employees.”

The Alderman intoned it like a bored priest too indifferent to care that he’d lost his faith. He didn’t look at me, but focused his attention on a part of the wall just above my left ear. He had a ring on his left hand; it carried the twin crosses.

“Where’s Oda?”

“She had to consult with her employers.”

“Why?”

“We need a coordinated strategy if we are to tackle the current situation.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“Everyone.”

“You don’t like me, do you?”

“I would not presume to question your judgement,” he replied.

I took a deep breath. “Fine. I want to talk to Loren.”

 

Loren wasn’t in her flat.

The Aldermen had moved her.

Sure, they’d moved her to a reasonably comfortable B & B just north of Mornington Crescent and made sure her boss didn’t mind; but they’d still plucked her out of her home and dragged her, strangers, to a strange place, and not bothered to explain themselves.

Which explained why, when I rang the number that the Aldermen had given me, she said: “WHO THE FUCK IS THIS?!! I SWEAR I WILL GODDAMN KILL YOU, I’LL KILL YOU I’LL . . .”

“Loren?”

The shouting stopped. There was a long pause, full of a rapid and distant drawing of breath. Then, “Who’s this?”

“It’s Matthew.”

“Jesus,
shit
.”

“Are you all right?”

“No. I am very much not all right. I am the least all right I think I have ever been in my whole life, and it’s been pretty shit so far anyway. Where’s Mo? Have you found him? I’m in this place in Camden, these men turned up and they . . . they said they were the police then I asked for ID and they said they weren’t but that I’d have to come and . . . have you found Mo?”

“Not yet. No. I’m sorry.”

“God. But you haven’t . . . I mean, you haven’t not found him because he’s . . . I mean, you haven’t not found him and you’re just not telling me because you think I can’t . . . look, I want to know, OK, I need to know whatever way it is if you’ve . . .”

“I haven’t found him. In any sense, I swear. I’m trying. I’m . . . getting there.”

“But if you can’t, then why . . .”

“Loren, I need to know some more things about him.”

“Matthew, what’s going on? Anything, but . . .”

“The guys who took you to Camden did it, for all their screwed-up reasoning, to keep you safe. You’ll be safe.”

“What’s not to be safe from?”

“There are things happening. Different things; I mean, different. But I’m looking, they’re looking all the time. I promise.”

“This is . . . there’s mystic stuff, right? Bad?”

“Maybe.”

“Involving Mo?”

“Perhaps. Yes. Probably.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s . . .”

“You told me the truth, Matthew. When that thing came up from under the street you turned and said, sorcerer, magic, monster, just straight out. And I thought ‘hell, this guy is either so whacked off his own head that he just can’t tell the difference any more so might as well run with it or, shit, this stuff is real, deal with the madness’. That’s the only way, do you see? I thought about it. If I don’t know then I’ll just imagine, all the things I might not know, all the terrible things that are out there, without limits, without reason, I need to know that it makes some sort of sense!”

There was no reason not to tell her.

No sensible reason.

We couldn’t.

Good sense had nothing to do with it.

We couldn’t, and didn’t know why.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” I said. “Not yet. Not all of it. I promise, when I know, when it’s finished, I’ll tell you it all. But anything I tell you now would just be a white lie or a bad lie or a half-truth with nothing to sit on and that might be OK for a time, but when it’s done, if I got it wrong . . . I’m sorry. I am looking. Please. I just need to know a few more things about Mo.”

“Is that it?”

“Yes. For the moment.”

“I see.” Her voice was the flat distant fall of the criminal who’s been caught, who knows it’s the chair, who knows the lawyer is just making noise, who knows there’s no way out, no point left in crying. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

And, as much as she could, she told me.

 

Mums and sons.

We struggled to understand. It was something people seemed to think would be instinctive. Flesh of my flesh. We found the idea distasteful.

There was more. Of course there was. Problem about asking questions is that most of the time, you only know what the question is once you have the answer.